Redeemed Secrets
by Prophecies
Summary: What if Harry had made an irreversible mistake, the type of mistake that had taken lives? A mistake that had taken one life in particular, one he had hoped to take, one he had strived to take, one he had taken and could never give back...
1. Rainy altercations

**Chapter 1: **Rainy altercations 

It was dark.

The streets beneath his feet echoed dissolutely in sync with the falling rain that poured from the sky. One or two lights shone in the distance like unfathomable eyes that could crack open skulls and absorb your every thought, your every well kept secret.

He shivered.

Not because he felt cold but because his secrets could rip the world apart.

Leaning against the rough wall of the narrow alleyway, he quickly averted his eyes, a hand reaching up unconsciously to feel for a fracture in his scalp. Finding none, he exhaled sharply and tried to relax.

Tried, and soon gave up.

He wondered what he was doing here. He had not, in actuality, expected him to show up. Not really. He had hoped though. Always hoped.

Not expected, never expected.

He had given up on assumptions long ago when they repetitiously had turned around to bite him in the ass. Now, he considered everything either an advantage or disadvantage.

Hermione scolded him; she says it's no way to live.

He agreed.

He sighed and studied his watch, just for something to do.

It was a pretty watch.

He had bought it mostly because he could, and partly because he never got to have something nice. This way, he always carried something nice with him however superficial. Something to look at to sooth his nerves like now;

Silver, inlaid with finely shaped gold. The glass made of the clearest crystal, edges perfectly rounded.

Numbers and hands both intricately worked with the tiniest sharpened emeralds.

Numbers and hands both still showing one O' clock in the morning, which meant he was late.

Late by thirty minutes.

Why had he hoped?

He turned his face up to face the night sky with his eyes closed. The rain, soaking his hair, his skin, his robes, beating on his eyelids like drums, seemed to be washing him away.

Until he was nothing.

Nothing but rain, skulking away through the cracks of stone as he fell. Fell back into the ground. Until the sun gathered him up again, high into the sky, only to fall down and be washed away once more with the nearest storm.

A fierce _crack_ made his eyes pop open. In one smooth motion his wand was drawn, and he, poised as sudden death.

A dark crouched figure straightened, then glided forward.

Black robes billowing, white mask blinding.

It stopped about ten paces away, reached up, took off its mask and waited.

"You came," he breathed slowly, wondrously.

"I said I would," replied the other, voice cold and shrouded.

He hesitated. "I wasn't sure." _No expectations. Never. _

"You should have been," bitter, colder.

"You're late."

A shrug. "We don't precisely clock-in or out," was commented flatly.

"Why?"

"If you _must_ know," a sneer plastered a smooth face, "next time, I'll ask The Dark Lord over for _tea _and kindly _request_ a set time-schedule," was bit out harshly. "I'm sure he will agree instantly _and_ be very amendable," the other's voice finished, dripping poison.

"You know what I mean," he snapped back, annoyed. "Why?" he demanded again.

"How should I know?" was growled back cruelly, instantly.

He fixed the man before him with a stare, his penetrating gaze incredulous.

"Maybe…" the other started finally, tongue flickering over thin cracked lips, "maybe, I'm not a monster, not the epitome of evil you lot make me out to be."

Silence.

Not_ a monster_? He thought evenly.

Gradually, anger, cold bodiless anger flitted through him.

Not_, evil_?

He had seen the new pictures. Gruesome horrific pictures. Pictures, if seen, would make _anyone_, anyone human he amended, want to spill out his guts.

"I saw the photos. How could they? A house full of Muggles. _Children _Malfoy! Muggle children, destroyed, ruined," he spat harshly, "how could you?"

Malfoy's face was like stone, all hard angels and lines. Eyes grey as ice and as hard as polished diamonds, glittering with malice.

He remained silent.

_Why _had_ Malfoy agreed to meet?_

He sighed and looked away, visibly gathering himself.

He had not come here to argue. He had not, he told himself firmly. He had known what Malfoy was and what he did. Long before the first pictures were taken as evidence, and long after he became an Auror.

He had killed Snape. Hunted him down and killed him. He had, as soon as he received status that classified him as an Auror. A Dark Wizard catcher. Snape had been a Dark Wizard to him. One who had killed Dumbledore, his mentor, his friend.

So he had killed him in return.

He had thought it a fair deal. A very fair one, until recently he learnt Snape had been a spy. A spy who had only done his 'masters' biding; only not the master Harry had believed.

It still made his stomach knot.

He could ill afford such mistakes. That's why he had contacted Malfoy. Because Malfoy had lowered his wand ten years ago, because Malfoy had all but accepted Dumbledore's offer of protection.

No, he could not afford such a mistake again.

He forced his eyes away from the paved street, away from those lights that wanted to pry his head open like a crowbar, and squared himself to face the Death Eater.

The man before him looked nothing like the boy he remembered. The boy, who he had thought cold and cruel seemed warm and pleasant in comparison. He was still obviously Draco Malfoy, the sheer arrogance in his stance and the haughty way he held his head high left little doubt. But his face had equated out, wasn't as pointy as it used to be, had roughened and looked to be made of adamant.

"Prove it," he told Malfoy roughly.

He had not expected Malfoy to, in all honest truth. He had not expected Malfoy _able_ to prove anything. How could you not be anything _but_ a monster doing such things? He had hoped though, always hoped. But never expected.

So when Malfoy looked at him calculatedly for long seconds, nodded, reached into his dark robes, halted uncertainly, looked back up into Harry's eyes, gaze wavering towards Harry's wand and back, Harry found himself leaning forward on his toes in curiosity, motioning Malfoy to continue impatiently, and at the same time lowering his wand arm a fraction.

_What could he _possibly_ prove?_

His eyes stared in shock, and his breath left him in a rush of astonishment as Malfoy produced a small cup between folds of cloth. A small cup with two finely wrought handles shining dimly in the murky shadows of the night with a burnished gold, engraved with a small reflection of a badger.

Harry stood frozen on the spot, his eyes felt as if they were bulging out of their sockets, and he stared at Malfoy unnervingly.

Malfoy stared back at him, his face empty seemingly unperturbed, but his tongue slivered across his lips again uneasily, his long fingers fiddling with the white mask and wand still held in his other hand.

"Well?" he challenged Harry, voice raw, eyes studying him intently.

"Well…" Harry repeated, his voice surprisingly firm. Not because that had been what he wanted to say but for lack of anything else.

Malfoy started to shift when Harry did not elaborate, his hand crumpling the mask in a white-knuckled fist. He breathed raggedly through his nose and when Harry still kept his involuntary silence his carefully crafted facade of stone cracked in two.

"I thought…," he started anxiously, harrowing a hand through white-blond wet strands of hair, as the hood of his robes fell back, "this," he held up Hufflepuff's cup stiffly, "it isn't… what… you were looking for, is it?"

Harry understood.

Malfoy had agreed to meet with Harry solely because he was in the possession of this cup.

This cup, he now believed Harry did not need.

It was transparent that he held no illusions of being able to take Harry on in a duel. His wand was still along his side, pointed to the ground; smashed against his Death Eater mask, while Harry had his firmly up, not pointing but not entirely lowered either.

Malfoy cast around wildly as if trying to find a solution to his problems in the hidden chasms of the alley, trying to find something he had lost.

Harry had seen more like it exempt of the badger of course, and numerous other valuable magical objects of gold and silver during the now legendary Malfoy Manor raid. An investigation he had led four years ago.

Malfoy had very likely grown up playing with these kinds of artefacts and drank his pumpkin juice from golden family heirlooms, just like this one.

At his order they had burned the manor down to the ground.

To Malfoy it was merely an ordinary cup again.

A cup, Harry Potter did not need.

What Malfoy had _lost _was something he had been positive would bend Harry to his will, or at least offer some form of protection. He had lost an advantage. An advantage he had handed over to Harry unsuspectingly.

Harry had been a fool not to have known that Malfoy would only come if he would gain something. That he would come, only to bring his own hidden agenda with him.

_What did Malfoy want?_

He finally found his voice, his mouth was dry, but he ignored it just like he ignored Malfoy's question.

"What is it?" he asked levelly. "An enchanted cup that fills with wine when you tap it twice with your wand?" he mocked contemptuously.

He knew perfectly well what it was. It was a Horcrux. A Horcrux he had been ineffectively trying to track down for almost a decade. His insides quivered like pudding, and he barely restrained himself from snatching it out of Malfoy's fingers.

Harry was an excellent Auror. He had learnt when to use stealth and cunning and when to listen to his head instead of his emotions.

Malfoy stood petrified, his faced darkened in outrage, he opened his mouth angrily but was not given a chance to speak.

"What is this supposed to _prove_, Malfoy?" he scorned, shaking his head for good measure. "Is this a bribe, am I supposed to be impressed by trinkets?"

"This was a mistake," interjected Malfoy savagely, "I should never have come," he announced to himself as much as Harry before turning around, and striding back to the end of the alley, where he had appeared. Cup still in hand.

"Wait!" Harry exclaimed.

He realised his mistake before Malfoy had paused to look over his shoulder, his face, a mixture of relief and presumption. He arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow and waited.

Harry cursed himself a fool. An excellent Auror?

Malfoy was not going anywhere. If he really wanted to Apparate away he would have done so instantly without the preamble. Harry would have sooner killed Malfoy when his back had been turned if he really had no need for him. Going by the relief faint but still visible on Malfoy's face, he had known that as well and taken the risk anyway.

"I want that cup," he admitted, forcing his voice to be casual and light. He was annoyed, especially with himself for falling for Malfoy's trickery. But he was not about to worsen the situation by letting him know just how bad he wanted it.

Bewilderment bloomed on Malfoy's face quickly wiped away by a sense of triumph. Obviously he had truly believed the cup to be worthless. Now, he cradled it in his arms, pressed it against his chest tightly and narrowed his eyes warily at Harry as if he expected him to attack him physically and wrestle it away from him by force.

"Not just a trinket, is it," Malfoy deduced slowly.

"No," he conceded coolly.

"You need it." A pleased little smile played on his lips.

"It could save me some time, but I can find another," he lied. He had become used to lying.

Malfoy's smile evaporated at once. "You're lying," he hissed through his teeth.

Harry shrugged as if losing interest. "Whatever Malfoy, if you really want to go, go." He waved his hand in dismissal. "I won't stop you. I had not expected much from you."

He turned to lean against the wall, taking his eyes off of Malfoy as if he had found something more important to stare at, then muttered, "Not a monster, really," under his breath, while shaking his head again in consternation.

He felt Malfoy stiffen next to him while the rain continued to batter down on them relentlessly and felt the coldness finally seeping into his bones slowly as his soaked robes clung to his skin.

He fetched a piece of parchment from his cloak, ignoring the drops of rain that immediately started to blur the ink and pretended to study it. His stomach fluttered queasily, heart racing like a hammer smashing his ribs but Malfoy had not so much as moved a toe. He did not know what he would do if Malfoy were to move, if he were to actually leave. He could not afford a mistake like Snape. If there was to be any hope, he _needed_ Malfoy. Maybe as much as he needed that cup.

Over ten years he had found two. Only two Horcruxes.

Over ten years Voldemort had send his ever growing rank of Death Eaters to terrorize the Wizarding World. Only London held. Held on with hands and feet desperately. Barely.

Harry had made sure of it.

If the Ministry had fallen, if the people had lost that glimmer of suppositious hope _everything_ would have fallen.

Fallen to shambles.

People were afraid. London was packed like a horse; refugees from all over the country had come seeking sanctuary. Most had been sent away.

One city could only hold so many.

He had been young and naïve, had been terribly angry with the world after the Tower incident. That's how he referred to it these days. The incident that had triggered many others.

He had never thought it would be easy. Nothing had ever been easy for him. But after he had stumbled upon two Horcruxes within the first year following his retirement as a Hogwarts student, he had become so sure of himself. Too sure.

He saw Malfoy considering him from the corner of his eyes. He still hadn't moved. Not a toe. Harry compelled himself to be more relaxed, focussed all his concentration on breathing evenly as he continued to stare at the flimsy paper in his hand.

"What's that?" Was asked after a while.

"What is what?" he inquired back, voice made absent.

"What you are _reading,_ Potter," Malfoy snapped, irritated.

"None of your business is what it is," he answered coolly, staring unseeingly at last weeks groceries list. "Weren't you leaving?"

Only the sound of rain followed and a crackling thunder somewhere in the distance.

Another minute passed.

"_Look _at me Potter," growled Malfoy, his voice trembling with frustration.

Harry turned to look at him.

"Say if…," Malfoy began, pausing to wet his lips. A bad habit he needed to rid himself of. "Say if _I_ were to…perhaps…_maybe_…give you this cup," he continued hesitantly, "what would _you_ give _me_ … in return?" Malfoy finished, staring at Harry fixedly.

"That depends on what you want," he answered slowly. "_I _do not _need _that cup." His eyes flickered from Malfoy's face to the Horcrux and back. "But _you _on the other hand-" He pointed his finger at Malfoy sharply, emphasising his point. "-seem to desperately need _something_," he continued, ignoring the angry strangled noise Malfoy made in his throat. "_What_ is it that you _need_, Malfoy?"

Malfoy stood shaking. Shaking with rage. He looked as if he were about to have apoplexy.

"I… don't need anything from you," he whispered softly, cuttingly, more effective than if he had shouted. "_You _are the one that asked _me_ to come. _You_. Asked. _Me._ do you hear me Potter. _I _don't need anything!" he breathed harshly. "Least of all from _you_."

Harry rolled is eyes. His onetime school nemesis words had banished all doubt away from him. Malfoy definitely wanted something, but what? What could he possibly have to give that Malfoy wanted.

"If you say so, Malfoy," he said wearily, "i've changed my mind about this meeting, you may go, I wont arrest you," he finished offhandedly before turning back to look at the list in his hand that was now completely illegible.

_Malfoy would not go. He wouldn't,_ he tried to tell himself feverishly.

"How generous of you," was spat in response.

Harry only nodded without looking back up. Pretended he had forgotten Malfoy's every existence.

"Alight, alright!" Malfoy cried out bitterly some moments later. Something in his voice made Harry glance at him.

Malfoy stood back straight, shoulders rigid and a face pale as milk. His long blond hair stuck to his face in lumps, giving him the appearance of a drowned cat. The mask he had been holding in his hand was now unrecognisably rumpled and he was still shaking.

His face looked as if he had taken a bite out of a lemon; a vein near his temple throbbed dangerously as he closed his eyes and exhaled deeply, fighting some internal battle.

Shock held Harry in its grasp when he saw the look in Malfoy's eyes as they shot open wide.

"What I want in return for this cup," Malfoy began in a pained voice, "what I _need_, Potter is you to give my..." he swallowed, as if his next words were frenetically struggling to stay in, "my…my mother Potter, I need you to take my mother to London," he finished in a rush.

Harry was dumbstruck, thrown completely off balance by Malfoy's words and eyes. He would have expected anything. Anything _but_ this.

"Your mother," he repeated numbly, "bring her to London."

Malfoy dipped his head in a jerky nod.

"_Me_," he started again, "bring _your_ mother, as in Narcissa Malfoy… to London," he repeated in confirmation of words he was sure he had not misheard.

"Yes," Malfoy hissed, as if the admission burned his tongue and brought him in a state of near death.

Harry stared at him blankly.

"_Protection_, Potter," his mouth curling in disgust as he spat both words. "In return for this cup I need you to get my mother out."

"Out of what!" Harry demanded sceptically. "Did she find Voldemort's hospitality unsatisfactory?" he galled, abandoning his cool composure. He snorted loudly then added, "Not the perfect host she had imagined him to be?

The skin around Malfoy's eyes tightened in strain, to his surprise Malfoy's cheeks reddened slightly and there went his tongue again brushing his lips. "That is one way to put it," he said quietly." His voice firmed before he asked, "In return for the cup will you do it, Potter?"

Narrowing his eyes to suspicious slits he answered brusquely, "No. I will not bring Death Eaters into London, Malfoy. Do you think I am a complete fool? I will not risk innocent people, cup or no cup."

He did not mean it; he would risk people if it meant saving more. Too many years had passed for him to still believe he could save everyone.

He would bring ten Narcissa Malfoy's into London if he had to. A thousand. If only he could be sure…

"What ever game you are playing at Malfoy, it is not going to work."

"It is not a game!" Malfoy's voice exploded in frustration. "She is not a Death Eater, do you hear me Potter! She's nothing like my father," he bit out.

"She is… nothing like…like me," he finished, voice barely above a whisper.

Malfoy's angry face crumpled suddenly, his shoulders slumped dejectedly, the look on his face was pleading and his lustrous eyes pooled with torment. "Please," he stammered weakly, "you must…you must get her out; she needs to go to London." He started forward, Hufflepuff's cup in his arm thrusted out ahead of him.

"Take it, please…here, you have to take it," he said to Harry, his jaw set in a determined line.

He didn't know why he agreed. Maybe it was the beseeching look on Malfoy's face as he locked eyes with him. Maybe it was the cold of the metal cup he had sought for so long that was pressed into his palm, or maybe it was because he realised he didn't have any other choice.

Whatever the reason, he soon found that 'why' was not important. The outcome to that question would eventually lead to the same conclusion;

In ten years he had found three. He had the cup, destroyed the locket and the harp. That left one, only one more to destroy.

He sighed wearily, letting his head rest against the icy stone of the alleyway, he closed his eyes.

It had not even been necessary for him to ask his question. Malfoy had unknowingly provided him with the answer by the name of Narcissa Malfoy. Malfoy would do anything for Narcissa Malfoy.

Anything.

He would make sure of it.

"I am not a monster!" Malfoy had told him before he had Apparated away.

But he had not replied

Only the rain had.

Nothing but the rain, skulking away through the cracks of stone as it fell. Fell back into the ground. Until the sun gathered it up again, high into the sky, only to fall down eventually and be washed away once more with the nearest storm.

A storm that would come fast and frightening, carrying secrets that would rip the world apart.


	2. Oversight

**Chapter 2:** Oversight

His office was small.

It gave him more privacy than a cubicle, so he didn't complain.

Every squad leader had one.

Most had decorated the space with pictures of home, friends and family. Some had posters of their favourite Quidditch team, although there hadn't been a match in over five years.

He didn't blame them. Everyone was trying to remain a semblance of normalcy. No one wanted to admit that the world was falling apart.

His office was small and decorated with nothing but the grey of paint, photo's of every finished job, every piece of evidence that had led to a closed case he could find, and pictures of every victim that made it out alive.

He guessed he too, was trying to remain a semblance of normalcy. A semblance of hope.

He stared at the cup on his desk.

Just a cup, he told himself.

A small golden cup with two finely made heart-shaped handles.

A small golden cup with a big hole centred where the badger used to be.

Hermione had destroyed it. He had not known how. He still didn't know what she had done exactly; only that it had looked complicated and that she had collapsed as soon as it was over.

His eyes drifted to the note lying next to it, then back up to the cup and then they drifted shut.

Not for long.

They shot open instantly when a loud bang told him someone had not bothered to knock.

"We are partners," started Williamson's angry voice, "do you have any inkling what that means Potter?"

He started forward furiously. A lock of brown hair had escaped the long ponytail on his back and dangled before his eyes.

He brushed it behind his ear irritably before continuing, "It means that _I_ go wherever _you_ go! You had no right!"

"It was for-"

Williamson's raised hand forestalled him. "I don't want to hear it!" he hissed. "I don't want to hear _anything_ about my safety, pending danger or _anything_ about Death Eaters and You-Know-Who."

Harry clamped his mouth shut.

"I'm an Auror. I have been an Auror before you. When will you get this through your thick scull! If I wanted a risk-free career I would have joined Rubella's Knitting Circle!"

"Maybe I shouldn't have, but-"

"No you shouldn't have," Williamson snapped, banging his fist on the desk and making the cup rattle. "You stunned me," he said incredulously, a hint of bitterness lacing his tone, "and left me there bound to a chair. Do you have any _idea_ how embarrassing it was when they found me like that? I had to tell them some ridiculous lie about me trying to stun a possible culprit but tripping over a-"

"You lied?" he interrupted disbelievingly.

"Yes," answered Williamson sourly, glaring at him.

"You told them you tripped?" Harry tried to keep his face smooth.

"I had to think of something fast! I didn't see any other-" he noticed Harry's face and his expression darkened. "Don't you _dare_ laugh!" he snapped indignantly.

Harry honestly tried not to, but it proved to be difficult.

"This is all your fault," continued Williamson savagely. "The whole department knows, everyone thinks I'm a fool."

His shoulders sagged and his face looked resigned as Harry's laughter washed over him.

"You should hear them talk, they will never leave me alone after this," he sighed miserably.

"I'm sorry." He couldn't say that he was. It had been necessary, Williamson would have died.

_He _had almost died.

He couldn't afford to die. Not just yet. He had one more…only one left to destroy.

Williamson grunted. "I'm sure you are," he said, his expression doubtful.

"The important part," Harry interceded quickly, "is that Greyback is dead."

Without their leader, the werewolves would rebel amongst themselves. They would be too caught up with their own politics to form a direct threat for some time. At least that was what he expected.

No, that was what he _hoped_.

Williamson frowned but nodded. "You're right, but I still wish you hadn't done that," he said grumpily. "You're my partner Harry, I'm supposed to be there for you whether you like it or not."

"I know..." And he did know.

But he liked Perry Williamson. He couldn't have let him come. Not where he had gone. The heart of the Wolves Den had not been a pleasant sight. He had barely made it out.

Getting in and killing Fenrir Greyback had been the easy part.

He winced, remembering the large gash that had been healed. The scar; a thin white line from below his collarbone to his abdomen. Another addition to his collection.

Silence had fallen and he realised his eyes had drifted back to the cup and to the note next to it.

"You shouldn't have left St. Mungos," Williamson broke in, "you look like shit."

"Thanks," he answered dryly.

He didn't doubt Williamson's word, he _felt_ like shit. But today marked a week since his meeting with Malfoy. Today would be the day when he would get Narcissa Malfoy and bring her out, bring her to London. He had no time for St. Mungos.

He glanced at the clock on the wall, gathered his cloak, the note and the cup and stood up in one fluent motion.

"I have to go."

"You can't. We have a meeting remember?"

He did now.

A meeting Robards would not like him to miss.

A meeting he was going to miss anyway.

He started for the small fireplace next to the enchanted window through which a blizzard storm could be seen raging.

"This is important."

He reached for the small jar resting atop the hearth and grabbed a pinch of Floo-Powder into his right hand.

"What could possibly be more important than a meeting with the head of Aurors and the Minister for Magic himself?" Williamson asked incredulously, but did not try to stop him.

Harry glanced at his partner steadily without giving a response.

Williamson sighed and nodded.

He knew Harry had his secrets.

Secrets he would not share. Not even with his partner.

Not with anyone.

Williamson did not understand, but he accepted it. Grudgingly, but he did.

He had to.

He shrugged on his cloak before throwing the Floo-Powder into the crackling fire and stared at the brilliant green that soon consumed the wavering flames.

"What should I tell them?" asked Williamson as Harry stepped into the grate.

"You'll think of something," he answered absently, his mind already concerned with what was to come.

A neutral district...a place from which Williamson could tell nothing.

Emerald flames leapt at his feet as he stated his destination. Swirled around him in a rush of untamed waves that wanted to drown him in the deepest of oceans.

------------------------------------------------

He pulled the hood of his cloak down quickly as he stepped out of the fireplace.

He didn't want to show his face.

His old scar that blazed a bloody crimson, looked freshly made and would send the proudest of men falling to their knees.

It still amazed him how people could believe so blindly.

Ten years and they still believed he was their saviour. The hero that would smite down lightning the shape of his scar from the sky and slay the evil from the world forever.

Or maybe he was just their semblance of normalcy. Their semblance of hope.

The Leaky Cauldron was derelict.

It was also fit to bursting. People swarmed every niche, every chasm, every hollow space that could be filled.

He had never liked crowds.

They were uncomfortable; they made him feel self-conscious.

But the crowds had changed.

The people had changed.

They didn't look at him with silent wonder or awe any longer. They didn't whisper his name in mild curiosity.

Instead, what he read in their eyes, what suffocated him every time he looked into those faces, as if a noose were tied around his neck… were the pleading looks, the helplessness.

The ignorance.

Only what really hung him, what really made the final kill each and every time, was the look of certainty, that look of absolute conviction that lit their faces when they gazed at him.

The look that said they still held faith.

It still amazed him, but mostly it nauseated him.

What if he couldn't do it? What if he failed?

He couldn't breathe, crowds were _still _uncomfortable.

They made him feel oppressed more than ever before.

He fled.

He shouldered men, pushed women and children out of his way. He couldn't stand to look at them any longer.

He didn't want to look at those people when he knew they would lay their souls bare for him. When he knew he had nothing to give them in return.

Nothing but a decade of darkness, a decade of despair.

He filled his lungs with the stabbing cold air that made his cloak waver like a flag in the wind, the minute he stepped outside into Muggle London.

There was no discernible difference here.

Everything looked neglected, ruined or abandoned.

But the streets were beleaguered with people.

It wasn't a fair fight for them. The Muggles.

They fought a war against something they couldn't see.

Something they _refused_ to see.

A man stepped up to him then. A haggard man. Maybe a beggar, but who could tell these days?

He was old. Grey hair a matted mess on his head. Eyes; cold and haunted in a wrinkled face that held skin the colour of rotting parchment.

"Praise Jesus Christ, our saviour!" the man wailed pathetically, grabbing the front of Harry's robes and pulling him close. "God bless our souls, but who will save us now...who will save us _this_ time? Do you believe lad…do you believe?"

Harry stumbled backwards in shock. This Muggle... could not know who he was, could he?

He shivered involuntarily.

They had tried to warn the Muggles. Tried to make them an ally and prepare them for the inevitable war.

But the Prime Minister had been blind. Blind to anything he did not want to see. He had not listened and he had not accepted their help.

How do you save someone who doesn't want saving?

Then their minister had been murdered. The only one who knew the truth about their existence. The only one who could have made a difference.

Death Eaters had taken his life, his... and many others.

Afterwards, staring into the face of Voldemort himself the Muggles had not seen.

Not believed.

Instead had screamed and cried that god had hurled death upon the world to purge out the sinners.

The Day of Judgement, they called it. A day that never seemed to end.

It wasn't a fair fight for them.

He panicked and wanted to shove the man away from him, but the old man had already moved along without expecting an answer. Already approaching another with the same query.

Already grabbing someone else's coat.

"Praise Jesus Christ, our saviour!" he heard the man wail pathetically as he held his wand in his hand stiffly and Apparated away.

No need for secrecy.

Not when the Muggles were as good as blind.

-----------------------------------------

"You shouldn't go out there again so soon," said a voice from behind him as he arrived.

A tired sigh left him as he silently peered out the window before him. He pressed his arm and forehead against the cool of the glass.

A troop of R.B.P Wizards marched by; faces grim, wands at the ready.

"Do you have it?" he inquired, rather than commenting. They had already been over this.

"Yes."

"Good."

"You never said...for who?"

"You know I can't."

"Why?" was demanded angrily.

He remained silent.

The R.B.P. Wizards continued on in a formation column, three-a-breast, nothing seemed to escape them as their gazes swept from side to side.

"Christ, Harry, you know I trust you...but this, this is serious. If anyone were to find out-"

"They won't," he interrupted sharply.

"How do you know?" was challenged back heatedly.

"I just _do_...all right?" he snapped.

He had no time for St. Mungos, and he had no time for this.

He could see her reflection in the glass now. She stood rigidly behind him to his right; her lips a thin white line, her hair a bleak blue that was edging on grey. Grey like the paint in his office.

"Tonks...please," he sighed, "...you know I wouldn't have asked if it wasn't important."

This favour, he knew it had been a lot to ask, but he saw no other way around it.

London was on lock-down.

He could leave of course, but no one entered the city without ministry approval.

Every wizard left their own distinct magical residue. One of Hermione's many discoveries. It is bound to the wizard and not _one_ residue is alike to another.

For the Londoners, the refugees who had been lucky enough to get admitted, and for _everyone _in London, it had been mandatory to register their magical residue, after it became clear that the city was overflowing with people trying to elude the darkness that encompassed most of the country.

A barrier had been drawn all around the outlines of Greater London.

The Residue Border.

It informs Ministry Officials exactly _when_ someone crosses over and _where. _

The border should have been enough to keep people from getting in. But because it was so large, because it took so much magic to sustain, breaches could be found or made.

That's where the Residue Border Patrol stepped in.

The R.B.P Wizards were now rounding a corner, in only a few seconds they were out of Harry's sight. He turned around to face Nymphadora Tonks.

She looked hard and brittle. And tired. Exhausted even.

The new division, part of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, has been active for nearly six years now. With Tonks her promotion, she had been made Head of Residue Border Patrol Office.

"I realise Harry, but-"

He cut her off. "You're going to have to trust me."

She stared into his eyes keenly, as if probing for something, some kind of affirmation.

Eventually she nodded, but she still didn't look wholly convinced.

"I hope you know what you are doing," was all she said.

He said nothing.

He hoped he knew as well.

Tonks sighed quietly and moved to a filing cabinet against the wall of her office. It was bigger than his of course, and looked far more comfortable in tints of green and yellow, with a large desk as the centrepiece of the room. The desk was beset with objects; numerous reports, a coffee mug, overfull files, parchment and an assortment of quills.

A music box he knew Remus had given her...

She had insisted on locating the Residue Border Patrol Office outside the Ministry of Magic. It was situated along the border now, she could see part of it from her office window. She had argued that the arrangement would be more practical this way.

She had been right of course, but without his vote and support, it wouldn't have happened.

After a moment, Tonks produced a large yellow envelope from the cabinet, hesitated, then handed it to him.

He opened it.

There it was, exactly what he'd asked for; one of those new Magical Verification Cards the ministry had insisted everyone carry.

Each card was covered with nothing but a mark in the form of the ministry emblem, that mark also contained a trace of your individual and unique, magical residue. This made it easier for the R.B.P Wizards to identify citizens on the spot, when they were out in the field.

He studied the card and emblem.

"The residue?" he questioned, without looking up.

"I was successful in extracting some from the enchanted object you sent me," Tonks allowed reluctantly. "The card is fully functional, legally registered and hooked onto The Database of Official Certification of Magical Residuals, where the residue itself is also registered. But I still don't think-"

He exhaled a deep breath in relief and tuned her out.

He knew what she was going to say anyway.

That leaving London was dangerous, even if for a little while. Especially this soon after the Wolves Den job. That she was worried about him, and that he was too important to take these risks. That he shouldn't bring anyone into London by circumventing the ministry, and that this person…whoever it was, was obviously a no-good and not worth his trouble. That it wasn't fair of him to collect his favour this way. That she would lose her job if anyone were to find out about this illegal immigration.

That people were killing each other out there, just to get their hands on a Magical Verification Card just like this one.

That this was wrong.

It _was_ wrong. But it was also a necessity.

"…Harry, are you listening to me?" Tonks demanded, annoyed.

"I have to go," he said for the second time that day.

And for the second time, no one tried to stop him.

---------------------------------------------

The alley looked far less daunting in daylight.

It also looked a lot more bedraggled.

But it was safe. As safe as could be.

The alley, only a few miles outside Greater London, in a town situated in the Northwest corner of Kent, was secluded.

Kent was one of the few places where people who had filed requests to enter the city, waited to be admitted.

Dartford lay in a valley. It was mostly abandoned, except for a few wanderers and strays.

He didn't have to wait this time.

Two figures, huddled in a shaded corner, both wearing long-dark cloaks with hoods pulled over their faces, looked up simultaneously as the noise of his Apperition drifted away with the wind.

Two sets of eyes coloured blue and grey, frosty around the edges and centers as cold as winter's heart, gazed at him levelly. Ivory faces wiped of any expression, wands drawn and pointing.

He snorted and rolled his eyes.

Malfoy's mouth tightened, but he lowered his wand, then motioned for his mother to do the same.

"I see you have received my note."

"Apparently."

Malfoy's mouth tightened further.

"You haven't changed your mind then," was asked warily.

"No," he replied curtly.

"The enchanted parchment I sent, was it ...useful?"

Instead of answering, Harry handed Malfoy the envelope from his inside pocket, then glanced at Narcissa, who had not said a word nor moved a muscle.

She was willowy, and very pale. He could see blond locks streaked with white, where hair wasn't covered by her hood. She was looking at him closely.

Scrutinising him openly.

A sharp intake of breath made him look back at Malfoy.

"How...?" was asked speechlessly.

"I collected a favour."

Malfoy nodded numbly.

Harry narrowed his eyes as something clicked in his head.

"You didn't think I'd keep my word." It wasn't a question.

Malfoy shrugged, then answered squarely, "I had my doubts."

He handed the Magical Verification Card to his mother. It was a plain white with the emblem of the Ministry painted in a dull gold.

Narcissa Malfoy's eyes widened fractionally as she finally spotted the card her son pressed into her palm.

"Try it." Harry told her.

She studied him again for a few seconds, her head coming up sharply, took her wand; a lean wood that seemed bleached, and pressed the tip on the golden emblem.

The white instantly turned a crystal clear and the emblem seemed to become alive; gold of a sunshine honey radiated and twinkled around the edges which folded themselves into the shape of a fountain that could be found in the atrium of the ministry.

The Fountain of Magical Brethren. A symbol of wholeness.

A symbol of equality

A pleasant female voice surrounded them from seemingly nowhere, it reminded Harry of the voice that could be heard at the visitors entrance of the ministry. It started to recite in a monotone:

"_Magical Verification Card holder recognises; Leslly Delaseya Lovaro, _

_Age: Fifty-one, _

_Wand: Hawthorn, 10 ¼ inches, unicorn tail hair._

_Database of Official Certification of Magical Residuals; Approved,_

London citizenship; Approved."

He had not realised Malfoy had been holding a breath until he released it, his tense posture faded into nonchalance.

Narcissa, on the contrary looked disgusted as she spat, "Leslly Delaseya Lovaro?"

Harry's face hardened, typical of a Malfoy to be concerned with a name.

"Take it, or leave it. Either way, I don't care."

"She'll take it," Malfoy snapped immediately, ignoring the scowl on his mothers face.

"I'm not leaving you," said Narcissa fiercely.

"We have already discussed this mother," Malfoy answered through his teeth.

"He will know. He will punish you!"

"I will handle it."

"How Draco? What if he kills you? What will be left of me then?" she demanded, her voice brimming with a flood of sudden emotions.

Harry froze, his eyes widened behind his glasses. He had not considered that possibility.

He couldn't afford Malfoy dying. Not just yet. Not when he had one more…only one left to destroy.

"Mother, don't…just don't," said Malfoy softly. He turned towards him. "Potter... it's time."

Harry swallowed but nodded. He had to take the risk. And if Malfoy died, he would find another way.

He would.

He would have to.

"Come with me Draco," Narcissa Malfoy pleaded.

When Malfoy said nothing she started for him instead. "Harry Potter, _please_...save my son, my only child. Tell him..tell him he can come with us!" she cried.

He just stood there petrified at the scene playing out before him.

When he said nothing, she threw herself into her sons arms, blue eyes gleaming with unshed tears that finally spilled when Malfoy kissed the top of her head.

He had never seen Malfoy's face so soft, his touch so gentle as he encircled her with his arms. He whispered something into her ear to which Narcissa responded with a wretched sob and a tightening of her arms.

He looked away.

He felt like an intruder, watching something so intimate, something so personal.

He gave them a moment of privacy.

A moment of goodbye's.

He didn't know how long he had stared at the wall. But when he had returned his gaze, when he had looked back... Malfoy had gone.

And he had been left staring into icy-blue eyes full of accusations.

Eyes that implicated his role in the condemnation of her son.


End file.
